Whiskey Man: We Get On Just Fine
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: TRIGGER WARNING for implied past abuse.  Lestrade doesn't like it when people drink around him.  It's not something he talks about.


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Special thanks to ImpishTubist for having read this over for me._

_A/N: I see Lestrade as a whisky man, when he drinks. So this time, he's not._

* * *

><p>Lestrade doesn't like it when people drink around him.<p>

He doesn't usually attend the Scotland Yard pub nights because of it; he doesn't want to be around the colleagues he likes and respects so much when they are drinking. He doesn't want to know what they might turn out to be like when drunk (and it would be naïve to assume that that won't happen). He doesn't want to see them uninhibited. He doesn't want to _be_ there.

But he can't avoid going forever, because they are, after all, his team, and they want him to join them for a drink. And tonight is as good a night as ever to go, because a couple of the other teams from West will be there too, and even John and Sherlock have been invited. Not that he expects them to come; he can't imagine Sherlock in a pub no matter how hard he tries.

The image makes him laugh, but the thought of the evening ahead puts a premature end to any humour he might find in it.

He makes it to the pub a little early, wants to talk to the bartenders before anyone else arrives. They're more than willing to agree to his request – he'll pay as if it's alcohol he's drinking, as long as they don't tell his team it's not – and he's able to relax at least a little, even if he more than suspects that they're laughing at him while his back is turned. He doesn't care. He isn't drinking.

While he was at Hendon on courses, he'd go to the pub occasionally – not because he wanted to, but because none of his classmates would let him off. He'd tried to turn them down one night and been teased mercilessly for it. He hadn't minded that, at least not much, but there was something more behind the teasing sometimes, and it was easier to concede than to deal with whatever malice might be latent there. So he'd gone, and he'd sat at the bar with nothing in front of him and been asked, every time, "Aren't you drinking?" until he'd figured it out and started ordering glasses of water and bottles of ginger beer.

That won't cut it with his team, who want to buy a round or two this time because he's never been before. So he's simply arranged for dealcoholized beer (Beck's Blue's in stock in the pub's bottle fridge; that was the first thing he'd checked) and virgin drinks, and the bartenders' silence where his colleagues are concerned.

Sally Donovan arrives a little later with a DI from one of the other teams – Dimmock's his name; he and Lestrade occasionally sub off for one another – and they greet him with a wave and begin pushing tables together to accommodate the entire Yard crew. Lestrade joins in, following Sally's instructions (she's only "Donovan" at work, she tells him the first time he tries to call her by that name), and before long, they're all settled in place. He asks who else is coming and watches Dimmock's face secretly fall when Sally mentions Anderson. She also grudgingly adds John and Sherlock to the list, but is quick to explain that while they've been invited, she has no idea whether or not they'll be coming. He can tell she can't picture it any better than he could.

Then a few of the sergeants arrive, jostling elbows for premium places in the booth, and after that some other people he doesn't quite recognize. The first round is ordered ("Pint for the DI!" and he winces, but hides it and accepts with well-feigned gratitude). More people. Then, to everyone's surprise, John Watson – no Sherlock, of course, and it's a bit odd to see one without the other, but that's still one more member of the Baker Street duo than anyone was expecting. John is quite well-liked, though, all the more so because everyone sympathizes with his having to deal with Sherlock all day, every day, and so he's greeted with rowdy enthusiasm and has a pint slipped into one hand before he's even sat down.

He sits next to Lestrade, shoots him a quick smile in greeting. "Bloody hell, they're cheerful tonight, aren't they?" he says, not sounding as though he minds in the least.

"Solved a couple of big ones," Lestrade fills him in, "and without Sherlock's help, too."

"Explains Anderson's grin, then," John says, nudging him so that he looks in that direction and is forced to quickly cover a grin of his own.

"So what's made you decide to come, then?" he asks, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Night off," says John. "No late shift at the clinic – and, quite frankly, I wouldn't mind an hour or two away from Sherlock and whatever it is he's got all over the stove this time."

"Oh, God," Lestrade groans, shaking his head. "Is it green? Those are the worst ones. Sometimes they _melt_ things."

John buries his face in his hands. Evidently, it _was_ green.

Lestrade pats him on the back, then waves away the offer of a second pint. He's hardly touched his first one; something about the beer, even though it's alcohol-free, even though it was never beer his father drank, just makes him shudder and he pushes it farther away from him along the table.

John, of course, notices. "Don't drink much, then?"

He shakes his head, offers an explanation (weak, and nowhere near the truth, but plausible enough to perhaps be acceptable). "No," he says, "don't like the taste."

He braces himself for the inevitable question. _Have you tried…?_ That's how it always goes, how it went when he was at Hendon, how it went when he'd go to obligatory parties at the Commissioner's home. Has he tried this? Has he tried that? _No, sod off_, but of course that wasn't something he could say. "No, thanks," he'd try instead, and duck out of the room before they could press further. So what is it that John will think of to suggest to him?

The question never comes.

He's more grateful for that than he can say, so instead he reaches for his glass and holds it up to the light. "Probably awful anyway."

"Undoubtedly." And John reaches for his own glass, which, despite how pleasant he's been about Lestrade's dislike of alcohol, despite how very personable he's been all along, makes Lestrade edge away from him imperceptibly. It's not John's fault. He just gets very uncomfortable very fast when the people around him are drinking, and it doesn't make much difference how much he likes them to begin with.

Fortunately, this time, John doesn't notice, and he takes a slow sip of his beer and puts it down in front of him again. They talk idly for a while, discovering a shared love of music and a little bit of audiophile snobbery on either side (Lestrade has Audio-Technica wooden headphones worth about two months' shopping; John's turntable, which he keeps well away from Sherlock, is outfitted with a Lyra cartridge). Lestrade tells John he wants to know what Roger Daltrey sounds like on a Lyra. John grins and says that maybe "London Calling" over Lestrade's headphones would be a fair exchange. Lestrade's estimation of John goes up by several points.

He finishes his pint, orders another, and Lestrade shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Moving away from John brings him closer to Anderson, though, and the forensic specialist is already on his third gin and tonic of the night (and that's worse than the beer, because gin is one of the things he could smell on his father some days), so he gives up and settles deeply back into his chair, trying hard not to look the way he feels – miserable and trapped.

He and John were just talking, even laughing. What's happened all of a sudden?

"Hey," says John, studying his face closely (too closely – what does he think he sees?). "You okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." He's not, but it's so stupid, being this nervous around a group of people he knows and likes and _trusts_, in some cases with his life. All they're doing is relaxing. Why can't he?

"You're not. Look at you."

Lestrade forces a smile, trying to remember the sensation of the genuine ones he and John were just exchanging. By this point, though, it's too late; John isn't buying what he's selling.

"Look, you don't have to tell me anything," John reassures him, though he already knows that. "It's just – you looked pretty upset."

"Sorry." And that might have been it, might have put the whole thing to rest, except that John – concerned friend, doctor, all around decent sort – decides to give it one more go.

"D'you want to get out of here for a minute?"

It'd be weird to say yes. His team's in here, and other people he likes, too, and Dimmock's looking expectantly at him like he's just been asked a question and he somehow didn't hear it. But he's looking at Lestrade over the top of a pint glass, and everyone else is on their third round at least (thank God for John, whose late arrival means he's only just ordered his second beer). And Anderson's laugh is loud and not entirely pleasant (shades of memories he'd never meant to think about again) and the DCI in the corner is glad-handing everyone around him with firm claps on the back, and it's all a bit overwhelming (well, a lot), so he forgets about _weird_ and just says, softly, "Yes."

John leaves his full pint on the table, stands, and walks outside without a word. He's giving Lestrade the opportunity to follow him alone, as if John were the one who was trying to leave. He's letting Lestrade save face.

Lestrade is not entirely sure why John is being so solicitous of him, but he appreciates it anyway. He follows the younger man outside, spots him sitting on the kerb, sits down beside him. It earns him a wry grin from John.

"Sorry," he says. "Bit less comfortable out here."

_No, it's not_, Lestrade thinks, and debates whether or not to say so. Eventually, he just shrugs.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, bathed in the dim glow of a faltering streetlamp. The pub lights behind them are warm and welcoming and they can hear the Scotland Yarders being of good cheer inside. It all seems all right from out here, just a group of friends – responsible adults – relaxing a little after a difficult few weeks. Lestrade is suddenly not really sure why he and John aren't in there with them, and he feels a bit stupid for having bolted like that – but then John says something and he catches the scent of the beer and it comes back in a rush, the panic of being surrounded on all sides by people who are drinking, the too-loud laughs and too-close contact and everything just _too much_ like it was when he was younger, and he knows he can't go back into the pub.

John's giving him a concerned look now, and saying something else. With effort, he catches the end of the sentence, something about 'right' – no, wait – it's no good, he hasn't heard enough of it.

"Sorry, come again?"

"I just said – are you all right?"

He does his best to regain his equanimity. "Yeah," he says hoarsely.

"Have another go."

"What?"

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're not being terribly convincing."

There isn't much Lestrade can say to that, because John's right – he's not really all right and he's not being very believable when he claims otherwise.

"Just don't like it in there much," he compromises, and that, at least, is true.

"Enthusiastic, your team," John offers.

"Yeah," smiles Lestrade. "They're all right. Good for them to relax once in a while." Only too late, he realizes that John was giving him an out – providing an explanation to gloss over his discomfort.

Too late now.

"So you're not one for 'going down t'pub,' then?" John asks. "Should've thought it was a grand old tradition of Scotland Yard detectives."

"It is," he says. "It's also a grand old tradition of my dad, and I'd prefer it if he and I never had anything in common, least of all that."

John is quiet, thinking that over, and damn the man, he sees far more than Lestrade intended him to – and Lestrade wasn't being exactly unforthcoming to begin with.

Pushing himself to his feet, John offers the inspector a hand up. "Walk?"

Lestrade supposes so, and they head down the street with no particular goal in mind. No goal, that is, except that John wants to talk – or thinks _he_ wants to talk – or something – and anyway, they're around a corner now and John is speaking softly, not looking at Lestrade.

"Not a very nice man, your dad, then," and it's not really a question.

"He was all right when he was sober."

"Yeah? That happen a lot?" says John conversationally.

No reason not to be honest when John's already guessed the answer. "No."

Another long pause where they're both quiet, listening to footfalls in imperfect rhythm, quiet rush of cars along the street, the unfinished silence between them.

"What was he like?"

John is anything but indirect. It's almost refreshing in a world that dances around everything that matters, but it still takes Lestrade a while to answer.

"Like you said. Not nice."

John nods. Says, "My dad used to come home drunk on Armed Forces Day. He got… pretty forceful about his opinions."

"Mmm." He knows John's trying to connect, but it isn't working because he hasn't really been there, he doesn't really _know_. "Mine, too."

"You don't drink because you don't want to be like that?"

Lestrade stops walking. John's trying, he really is, but he isn't Sherlock (thank God; if he were anything like Sherlock, all of Lestrade's secrets would have been spilled in the first five minutes and one or the other of them would be very much the worse for wear right now), and he's got it wrong, mostly.

Well, no, he hasn't. He's got it exactly right – that's why Lestrade refuses to drink. He doesn't know what he'd be like if he did, and he is never, _ever_ going to find out.

But that's not why – and John figures this out in the same moment, opens his mouth to ask the question even as it crosses Lestrade's mind – that's not why he can't stand sitting in the pub.

Lestrade forestalls John's asking by stepping in front of him and facing him dead-on.

"My father," he says, "came home drunk. On Armed Forces Day and and Christmas Day and bank holidays and days ending in Y." He starts walking again and John keeps up, matching him step for step and saying nothing.

"He came home drunk, and then he got pretty forceful about his opinions. With whatever was closest to hand."

It takes John a minute, probably because this is so far from anything he was expecting at the start of the night, but he catches on. "He… hurt you."

Lestrade shrugs. Which means yes.

He hasn't noticed until now that he's been walking faster and faster, but suddenly he realizes that John's actually having to exert himself to keep up. Quickly, he shortens his steps, slows his pace, glances ruefully in John's direction, but the doctor doesn't seem to have noticed either.

"Where is he now?" John asks. There's really nothing else to say that doesn't seem somehow intrusive, and it's not like either of them set out to have this conversation when they joined the Yarders at the pub this evening.

"No idea," Lestrade says. "Somerset. Rehab. Hell."

"Okay," says John matter-of-factly. "No contact, then."

"Not since I was fifteen."

"Bit young, weren't you?"

"My mum died when I was fifteen. Didn't have to stay anymore after that."

As Lestrade's meaning sinks in, there are a thousand questions John wants to ask. _What happened to you? Where did you go? How did you end up here?_ but the thing he can't quite get over is the way the words keep repeating in his head.

_Didn't have to stay anymore._

He thinks about the way Lestrade steps between Sherlock and Anderson at crime scenes, solid barrier to the insults and insinuations. He thinks about the way the inspector can quiet Sherlock with a word or gesture, sending voiceless signals that bring him back to the matter at hand. He thinks about the way Lestrade always puts his head down and deals with whatever needs to be done, never complaining and never backing down.

He's never thought about _why_ Lestrade is that way.

And, he realizes belatedly, he's never thought about what it must cost Lestrade to be that way – because he's always the one doing the intervening, and John's never once seen him get any thanks for it.

He ought to say something, but he doesn't know what.

It's obvious John doesn't know where to go from here with the conversation. So Lestrade does what he's best at, avoids, redirects. "Nearly to Baker Street by now," he observes, for something to fill the gap.

John glances up at the buildings around them; he hasn't been paying attention at all. "Hadn't realized we were so close."

"We've been walking for a while." He gestures down the street, to where the rooftops of the street in question are darkly visible against the night sky.

"D'you want to…" and here, John catches himself; he can't very well say what falls naturally to mind, which is, _come up for a drink?_ He hesitates for a moment, but manages to come up with something else in time for it not to sound too terribly awkward. "… come up for a cuppa?"

Lestrade looks at John like he's just saved his life, which John thinks is a bit of an overstatement, but he's not about to argue – and tea, tea is something he can _do_, so that he isn't quite so much out of his depth as he has been ever since they left the pub.

It's just a few minutes before they're at the door to 221B and Lestrade pauses. "Sherlock?"

John waves a hand vaguely into the distance. "He was gone when I left. Picked up by Mycroft, so you can _imagine_ the complaining."

"What did you do?"

"Said he could always come to pub night instead – " and John flinches as though he's let something slip.

"It's not a dirty word," Lestrade points out. "You can _say_ it."

What John actually says is, "Tea?" and they go up the stairs into the flat.

There are quiet noises from the kitchen while John boils water and gets out the milk (or, rather, makes irritated noises when it turns out that, once again, there isn't any milk because Sherlock has done something unmentionable to it; Lestrade smiles a little and says he thinks it'll be all right if they betray their British roots just this one time and have their tea without). They're drinking in companionable silence when Lestrade finally takes pity on John's worried frown, his teeth clamped nervously over his bottom lip, his not-quite-subtle glances.

"Go _on_, then."

"Sorry?"

"You want to ask something. So _ask_."

The problem is, John doesn't know what to ask first. He doesn't know what's okay to ask and what isn't. His training for this sort of thing in a medical setting is completely useless when it's all old history (except it isn't, not for Lestrade), when it's his friend, when it's a bloody detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police.

Lestrade watches John search the air around him for something to say and finally settle on a point of common ground. "Does Sherlock know?"

He shoots John a meaningful look. "D'you really think there's anything about me Sherlock _doesn't_ know?"

No; good point.

"We haven't talked about it, if that's what you're asking. He doesn't know anything he hasn't deduced. And he's never asked."

Which is frankly startling, given Sherlock.

They sit, John's hands twitching against his mug of tea while he tries to think what to say next. This, Lestrade thinks, is why he doesn't talk about it – this sudden change in friendship, this sudden loss of legitimacy in everything they do. All of a sudden, he's gone from _friend_, _ally_, _the only other person who can commiserate with John about Sherlock Holmes_ to something unrecognizable. Someone John has to tiptoe around, watching his words and his gestures. _Damaged_. _Victim_.

Bloody _hell_. He tries not to have a lot of regrets in his life, tries just to carry on regardless. But he's regretting his decision to give pub night a go right now; he may never have regretted anything quite so much. Before tonight, he'd rather hoped he'd have John Watson for a friend.

"Whisky," he offers, tired of seeing John at a loss.

"Sorry?"

"Have you ever noticed Sherlock doesn't keep whisky in the house?"

"Well, he doesn't drink. Does he?"

"He does. Just not very often. But he's got wine in the cupboard – you know that, you've seen it. And brandy under the sink."

"Okay, so… what's Sherlock's hang-up about the whisky?"

"He hasn't got one. It's mine." John, he thinks, should really have seen that one coming.

"Sherlock doesn't keep whisky in his flat… because _you_ don't like it?"

"Yeah."

There's a pause. "Bloody hell, how'd you get him to do that?"

"I didn't. Never said a word."

And this is new information about Sherlock, information John has long suspected, but never really seen. Sherlock _is_ human and he _does_ care, but in ways so strange and subtle even the most practised eye might blink and miss them.

_Go on, get this over with_, Lestrade thinks, and finishes his earlier sentence. "Whisky's what he liked to drink. His favourite."

They both know they're not talking about Sherlock anymore. John bites his lip and waits.

"He never knew when to stop. Or maybe he knew and chose not to."

It's the same thing John has wondered, again and again, about Harry.

"He'd come home and something'd set him off – never the same thing twice – and he'd get. Well."

"And… you tried to stop him?"

"You don't stop something like that, John. You just wait for it to be over."

The images in John's head right now are not ones he's ever imagined he'd have to think about, not ones he'd ever have associated with the quiet, unassuming man in front of him before tonight. But somehow, just the fact that Lestrade's stoic matter-of-factness hasn't faltered since he began speaking seems to make it _real_.

_You just wait for it to be over._

That, he realizes, is what Lestrade always does. When Sherlock is raving about a case, when they're standing out in the pouring rain over a bloody patch of street and a few scraps of fabric, when he's being deluged with new bodies, with paperwork, with Moriarty's little games. John hasn't understood until now that it's something the DI learnt long ago and has never managed to forget.

He wants to do something, _anything_ – comfort, solidarity, understanding of some sort – but, again, he's at a loss.

"Hey," says Lestrade, and his whole bearing changes; he squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, thinks maybe he can still salvage the night, or at least his and John's acquaintanceship. Might be a bit much now to hope for friendship. "Bloody, but unbowed, right?"

It's so typical of the man beside him that John can't help a laugh (short, sharp, uncertain) as he shakes his head at Lestrade.

"How do you _do_ that?" he asks, aware that he is very much on thin ice, but forging on ahead anyway. "How do you just… make it look like everything's fine?"

Lestrade answers softly, "Because usually, it is."

"And when it's not?"

He gives John a small smile. "Call it a survival skill."

John's pretty sure that's not entirely a euphemism. He tries to take another sip of tea, for something to do with himself, and finds that his cup is empty.

Suddenly, he _does_ have something to say, and a way to say it, too.

"D'you know why I started drinking tea?"

"What?"

"It was because of Harry," he explains. "My sister. She's a recovering – well, I say recovering – she has a drinking problem. I'd go over to her flat, make tea, stay the night. At least that way I knew where she was and what she was drinking."

"And that worked?"

"Until I had to ship out to Afghanistan."

Lestrade reaches out a hand, lays it on John's shoulder. He knows the words John isn't saying, knows them and is sorry John has ever had to deal with this. Sorry about that, and sorrier than ever that he's brought this conversation up at all.

"I'm – I didn't mean to start all this, I'm sorry."

"No, don't – no. _I'm_ sorry. I feel stupid talking about this to _you_, you've had so much – worse – "

"It's fine. It's over."

It's never really over, and they both know it.

"How's your sister now?"

"She's – trying. With the divorce and everything, it's hard."

_Hard._ Hard is such a tiny, meaningless word. Lestrade thinks of his father when his mother died, thinks of what he can now recognize as grief and rage and complete loss of control, even though at the time it just meant terror and pain and trying desperately to hide. And not succeeding.

He tenses, a nervous gesture as natural and unnatural to him as is Sherlock's automatic brushing of fingers across old track marks when he sees a junkie on a case. When the muscles of his shoulders tighten under the skin, he can feel old scars.

Maybe John is lucky. Maybe for him it _is_ just hard.

All he says is, "Yes."

He suddenly doesn't want to be talking about this anymore. He's afraid that anything he might add would only sound the death knell on whatever small fragment of his connection to John he hasn't already destroyed. And he can't afford that – both for Sherlock's sake, and for his own.

John offers more tea. He shakes his head apologetically, says he should really be going, even though he doesn't have a ready excuse as to why.

John, of course, sees straight through it. He pours another mug of tea for himself, and when Lestrade makes hesitant motions toward the door, he shifts about some folders and papers, a few glass beakers that don't look too alarming, and holds up a familiar record album. Neither one of them has forgotten the conversation they had in the pub.

"Sure you have to go?"

Deep musical instincts war with deeper uncertainties. In a long-forgotten habit, Lestrade gnaws on a thumbnail as he tries to pluck the right answer from the air.

"Come on, then," says John. "I already know you want to hear this."

He shouldn't.

But John is _asking_ him to stay, and maybe that means that in giving up a closely-guarded secret, he hasn't entirely given up the friendship he was hoping for.

And John has chosen better than he knows. Lestrade has always had a particular love for "Behind Blue Eyes," and tonight, especially, he wants nothing more than to close his eyes, forget about everything and just _listen_.

"Yeah," he says, slowly. "All right."

A brilliant smile flashes across John's face, and he's got the record on the turntable before Lestrade can second-guess himself.

"John?"

"Mmm," only half paying attention, because the opening chords are already rippling out over them.

"Thank you."

_Thank you. More than you know._

He relaxes back into his chair, feeling the old scars across his back again, deliberately this time. It feels a little like he's come out a winner, but he can't really put his finger on what it is he might have defeated tonight.

John smiles back. "Thank _you_," is his only reply, and he doesn't explain what for.

Maybe they've both won.

He stops thinking about it, nods once to John, and gives himself over to the music.


End file.
